


How Many Angels Can Dance On A Pole?

by ThetaSigma



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angels cannot dance even on a pole, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Team building exercises suck, Those two tags are actually related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 02:31:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20958992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThetaSigma/pseuds/ThetaSigma
Summary: Crowley sets up a bit of a surprise for Aziraphale: a very special performance at a club by Heaven's Angels. Gabriel can be tricked into anything, especially if he thinks it's a team-building exercise for management, and the others will go along with it. They are even worse than anyone was expecting.Or: Crowley tricks Gabriel into thinkingpole-dancingis in any way a team-building exercise.





	How Many Angels Can Dance On A Pole?

**Author's Note:**

> This does reference events from [Prancing and Purswaysions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20944442) but it's absolutely not necessary to read that first; this fic stands on its own.  
Also, this is _also_ my sister's fault. Her original title suggestion for Prancing and Purswaysions was "How Many Angels Can Dance On A Pole?" and while it did not work for that fic, I _needed_ to write a fic that it _did_ work for.

Crowley is sporting a particularly wicked smile as he tells Aziraphale their plans for the night. “Strip club, you and me, tonight,” he says.

Aziraphale tuts. “Really, my dear, I can’t dance  _ every _ night.” Mainly because the sex afterwards is so explosive it takes several not-at-all-minor miracles to get everything looking proper again. Streets have been accidentally demolished as a result of their passion, and that’s one of the more minor things they’ve had to conveniently erase after the fact.

“Oh, no, tonight you’re not dancing. Tonight you’re  _ watching _ . I’ve set up a  _ very _ special surprise for you.”

Aziraphale wonders what on Earth it could be, and a very, very large part of him hopes that Crowley didn’t learn to pole-dance for him. He takes a special pleasure in being the one in the relationship who can, and he knows that if Crowley set his mind to it, he’d learn it very quickly, and probably be a lot better at it than Aziraphale. Somehow, while Aziraphale can handle Crowley being very good at dancing, he doesn’t think he’d be able to watch his demon outpace him in this  _ one _ dance. 

But if Crowley  _ did _ learn for him, he did it with the absolute best of intentions -- love and devotion and a healthy dollop of lust -- and Aziraphale knows he would never be able to bring himself to tell Crowley how much it would hurt.

It’s with very conflicted feelings Aziraphale gets ready for the night. He dresses in his usual staid outfit (which is not at all what he wears to pole-dance -- he wears more Crowley-esque tight clothing. It helps him move more freely, and the way Crowley  _ undresses _ him with his eyes watching adds an extra edge of  _ sheer need _ later).

Aziraphale calms down when Crowley drops in his usual seat and sprawls out. Crowley pats the seat next to him, the wicked grin still in place. “Oh, angel, I think you’re going to enjoy this  _ a lot _ .”

Now that Aziraphale is fairly sure that Crowley has zero intention of dancing tonight, he wonders exactly what Crowley  _ did _ arrange, and what that wicked smile could be about. He hopes Crowley hasn’t found some young person he thinks Aziraphale would particularly enjoy watching -- Aziraphale can appreciate others’ beauty, but he really only has eyes for his love.

Crowley is  _ squirming _ he’s so pleased with himself. 

“And as a special appearance tonight, Heaven’s Angels!” the announcer calls out. Aziraphale shoots a look at Crowley, but all he can see is the dark glasses and that still-present wicked grin. 

Before Aziraphale can speculate any further about who these supposed angels are, they walk out on the stage. Aziraphale’s jaw  _ drops _ as he watches Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon walk onto the stage and each grab a pole.

“Crowley?” he asks. “Did  _ you _ arrange this?”

Crowley doesn’t answer him, too fixated on the stage. Aziraphale decides he’ll get answers later and settles in to enjoy the show. He does not have high hopes for them being any good. He knows perfectly well angels can’t dance, and he’s not much of an exception to that.

He is right: they are  _ bad. _ They are somehow  _ worse _ than anything Aziraphale expected. Gabriel moves woodenly, his stupid smug smile firmly fixed on his stupid smug face. He is absolutely convinced he knows exactly what he’s doing, despite none of his moves working. He attempts a spin, the one where the pole is between his knees, but keeps having to drop his legs down so he doesn’t fall on his arse (although Aziraphale would quite  _ enjoy _ seeing that). It looks like wooden bunny-hopping. 

Michael has a hand on the pole disdainfully but does little more than walk around it in mincing steps. Her expression is haughty and off-putting.

Sandalphon is attempting to climb the pole to the top as if it were a particularly bad ladder. He inches his way up, his knees squeaking up a quarter inch at a time. There is no  _ attempt _ at pole-dancing here; he seems convinced that this is a goal to reach the top first, and it is clear he is very, very pleased he’s going to be the first to touch the ceiling. Every so often he slips slightly and loses about three inches (which translates to approximately a minute or two of effort). He is not at all deterred by this and keeps going.

Uriel has  _ really _ gotten into it. They’re swinging around the pole with wild abandon, often accidentally whacking one of the nearby angels (at least Aziraphale  _ assumes _ it’s accidental, but to be fair, he’d totally also engineer a move where he could ‘accidentally’ whack Gabriel or Michael). But even they’re not  _ good _ . Most of the moves end with them flat on their arse or falling off the pole or smashing their knee into something. They don’t seem to give a damn, though, getting right back up and swinging around again.

The club is roaring with laughter. There’s  _ so much _ to choose from to laugh at, between Sandalphon’s eager race to the literal top, Michael’s prancing around a pole, Gabriel’s wooden swings, and Uriel’s eager smacking of the other three in their dancing. Crowley is  _ shaking _ he is laughing so hard. Aziraphale has tears in his eyes from the laughter. 

Aziraphale is sorely tempted to go up there and show them how it’s done, but he would be as much of a disaster right now as they are. He’s laughing too hard to even stand up straight, let alone swing around a pole like he usually can. Also, he never, ever wants Crowley to associate the angels with  _ anything _ sexy, and he knows that Crowley’s dick gets hard (or vagina gets soaked, depending on his genital choice for the day) the  _ second _ Aziraphale put his hands on the pole. Aziraphale has never thought he’d  _ need _ to set this mental rule, but now he does: He will never, ever do anything to turn Crowley on while Gabriel is anywhere nearby. It would  _ sully _ the whole experience.

“My dear, is this your doing?” Aziraphale manages in an undertone to Crowley.

Crowley just nods, still helpless with laughter. 

Eventually the angels reach the end of their planned routine, so to speak. Gabriel has completed his set of prescribed moves, still woodenly, the smug grin never leaving his face. Michael has made exactly 412 turns around the pole with one hand resting on it. Sandalphon still hasn’t reached the top, although another ten or so minutes of inching up would likely have ended in him touching the ceiling proudly.

Gabriel bows to the crowd, the smug shit-eating grin still on his face. In his mind, this was 100% a success.

Michael just nods at the crowd haughtily, executes a flawless 180-degree turn, and walks off the stage.

Uriel takes deep bows, blowing kisses at the crowd. 

Sandalphon looks  _ devastated _ . Aziraphale wonders if anyone ever explained to him the goal was  _ not _ to reach the ceiling, and decides, on the evidence, that he never really understood that. Somehow, Sandalphon’s distress at not reaching the ceiling is the  _ best _ part of this.

To catcalls and howled laughter, the other three angels leave the stage (Michael is long gone). Gabriel strides off in the wrong direction, waving. Sandalphon slinks off. Uriel almost has to be dragged off the stage. Aziraphale wonders if they’ll sneak out of Heaven every so often to do this again. They definitely  _ enjoyed _ it, unlike the other three.

Finally, he can’t wait anymore. He turns to Crowley and demands,  _ “How _ did you manage this?” 

Crowley  _ grins _ at him. “I sent Heaven a memo, supposedly from some minor angel they’ve all but forgotten about. Don’t even know where they actually are.”

“Go on.”

Crowley hands him a copy of the memo. “Just read it, angel.”

_ “To the exalted Archangel Gabriel: A report of the latest craze on Earth, with its applications to Heaven.  _

_ “I, your humble and devoted servant, have recently discovered that the latest craze on Earth is known as ‘pole-dancing’, where people use a long metal pole, securely bolted in the ground, as an aide to dancing. This is mostly used as a team-building exercise. Humans believe that this activity bonds the dancers together and make them a stronger team. _

_ “I hesitate to suggest anything to as an exalted an angel as you, Archangel, but I believe Heaven could only grow stronger by attempting this activity. To this aim, I have found that the club at the following coordinates would be happy to facilitate such a trust-building exercise, should your exalted Holiness be interested in attempting this.” _

Aziraphale stops reading. It’s a little frightening how well Crowley played to Gabriel’s various weaknesses -- it’s a bit of a shock, although Aziraphale  _ knows _ Crowley is a demon, and while not a particularly good one, his stock had  _ always _ been minor mischief*.

_ *Crowley is the source of all trickster gods in human mythologies. The Vikings knew him as Loki, the West Africans as Anansi, the Greeks as Eris (one of his female phases), and the Cree and Algonquin as Wisakedjak, among many, many others.  _

Then Aziraphale sees the  _ funny _ side of it, Gabriel being so easily tricked by his love of ceremony and his adoration for stupid team-building exercises and his complete inability to tell when a joke was being played on him. Everything about that is funny, especially to Aziraphale, who had to put up with 6,000 years of that smug bastard’s shit. It’s almost  _ exactly _ like one of the many folk tales across the world about a trickster god (Crowley, remember) outwitting the supposed hero, and Aziraphale laughs nearly as hard as he did during the performance.

He almost asks why, why Crowley would set any of this up, but there are too many good answers: because Gabriel is a prick, because Crowley deserved it after seeing how much Heaven hated Aziraphale, because Aziraphale deserved it after millennia of putting up with these pricks, because it was  _ funny _ , because they answer to no one anymore so why not let the angels make fools of themselves, because Crowley may not be a demon anymore but he definitely still is a trickster.

After a moment, Aziraphale says, “Well, what should we trick Hell into doing?”


End file.
